Morning: What’s another word for rage if not loss?Set out for boat ride on the Wilson LineWith other district champs, but not allowed aboveThe bottom of the boat. History in my nostrils, flared.A pigeon asked me for a quarterIn the park. A beggar ate crumbs from my hand.Lunch: White House. Washington Monument in background,Mother and Ms. Norris in foreground. Chiaroscuro, a wordI must remember. Elizabeth Kenney is a Negro girlFrom a southern district, somewhere in North Carolina.She’s wringing her hands. I must keep my head. Everything movesLike it’s from a different planet. Street vendors have more handsThan Vishnu. No one is in love in DC. Where do the babiesCome from in this town? No, how do they survive? An old, NegroMan is dancing in the middle of the street; he moves his gloved handEast, and the cars move toward the sun, he moves his other handWest, and they head toward the ocean. Someone loves him who walksThe dotted line. How else does he get his shoes off at night?Night: my hand disappears inside President Roosevelt’s as heCongratulates me, just for showing up, before the competition.Elizabeth Kenney misspells Appellation in round one.Now, I’m alone and the dreams set in:I see Ethel Waters pouring tea at a table in the audience.Was Asa Philip Randolph really shining shoes in the lobby?I ask again, where do the babies come from? And I’m snappedBack to the spelling bee as the announcer repeats NemesisAs two tongues dance like a poor child for changeBehind his teeth.